And her name was Moon
by Rrenell
Summary: There are many things that make Zhalia Moon special. Each one makes Dante love her all that much more.


Disclaimer: _Huntik Secrets & Seekers_ belongs to Iginio Straffi. Unfortunately.

* * *

" _Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. Then your love would also change."  
_ ― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

 **Dante's House Venice, Italy**

Zhalia was not an affectionate person, at least not in public.

In the beginning, this would have affected him. His disappointment, however brief, was evident in his face when his fingers would interlace with her fragile hand then just as quickly slip when the grip solidified. Her delicate face would swiftly turn the opposite side as she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, eyes held downcast under his questioning gaze. Mindful of her stance, the auburn hair seeker turned the other way.

Dante could not comprehend why a woman as powerful as herself portrayed so much timidity. Slight irritation settled in his mind as he looked at her, sleek black hair cascading seductively down her narrow back and prominent hips. It had been a while now since both seekers proclaimed their affection for one another along with their need to constantly be together in any corner of the world. Yet, as much as they knew of their growing fondness, other people were yet to be made aware of their blossoming relationship. Since the start, Dante could count on his hand how many times they've held hands; the answer is three. And each time, no matter how simple it may have been, Dante remembered with the utmost happiness. Although the occasions were different, they all had one thing in common: both he and Zhalia were completely _alone_. Public displays of affection, doesn't matter how innocent they may appear, were absolutely a no-go for Zhalia. And because his love for the female seeker was great (and only increased with the passing of time), Dante calmly accepted this.

Still, it was hard to contain himself when her eyes glowed in the sunset as the wisps of her black hair framed her face just enough to leave him breathless. She was beautiful in every sense of the word, and the need to touch her, to feel her under his fingertips, was too much to bear. Dante sighed in resignation.

Suddenly, a slender shoulder brushed his and Dante turned to find the woman in question standing close to him, her gaze forward. A wispy blush adorned her sharp cheekbones as her body pressed closer and closer to the auburn seeker, her warmth reaching Dante, making his eyes slightly widen.

After the initial shock, Dante only smiled and inched closer to Zhalia as well, the touching of their sides small but full of all the endearment they dare not say aloud for others to hear.

* * *

" _O jealousy! Thou magnifier of trifles." —_ Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

 **Library D'etude Et Du Patrimoine Toulouse, France**

Dante Vale considered himself a reasonable man. His process of thought was thorough and flowed well enough to make rational decisions. Everything was done under a sense of calmness and sensibility that may have rivaled that of his master, Storm.

He could not, however, recall any of that so called "calmness and sensibility" at the present moment. Not when the object of his affection was currently trapped by a much-too-friendly Foundation operative. Dante saw red as the man inched nearer to Zhalia, her mind preoccupied by the firewalls and numerous lines of code needed to hack into a tightly secured system.

The operative, a so-called Alban Wilson, peered over her shoulder dismissively at the computer screen. "Aren't you a smart lass…" His thick Scottish accent fell on deaf ears. Green eyes roamed sultrily over her form before finally setting on her lower backside, a lazy smirk settling on his lips. "A pretty one too."

"Mm." Was the only response from Zhalia, her attention elsewhere as her nimble fingers flew over the small keyboard. The more she hunched to enter the commands, the more Alban pressed closer to her back.

It was at that exact moment that Dante's eyes flashed a dangerous golden aura and his left fist engulfed in a red glow. Sophie and Lok shifted nervously at the scene in front of them. Dante was not one for petty fights, especially in public places. Still, it was somewhat amusing to see their leader so riled up over something as trivial as jealousy. Proved even those as self-composed as the great Dante Vale came as human as the rest of them.

One thing was sure, this was certainly new. By usual standards, Zhalia was the one who unleashed the green-eyed monster (no pun intended). Dante thought nothing of it and only shook his head. No matter how many people approached him, his heart was undoubtedly in Zhalia's hands. As cliché as it may sound, Dante had eyes for no one else but the woman with the dark hair and sharp tongue. But being on the opposite side now made him burn with envy and growl in overprotectiveness, both of his fists now clenching and unclenching under the pressure to break Alban's arms and punch his throat.

"Just look at you," his lips ghosted over the shell of Zhalia's ear while his right arm snaked around her narrow waist. " _I'd have you twice over this desk_."

No one knew what came first. The desk that broke under the seething aura of Dante's anger or Zhalia's bruising twist of Alban's arm. Lok and Sophie stood flabbergasted in the middle of it all, the tension thick enough to choke. All the other people in the library stood frozen under the commotion, no one daring to breathe in anticipation of a next move.

The temperature in the room seemed to abruptly drop ten degrees as Zhalia's eyes narrowed in a deadly, green glow. Alban hissed, the need to nurse his broken arm evident in the painful scrunching of his brows. The venom dripping from her words matched the poisonous glare she gave the perpetrator as her fingers clutched menacingly in a vice grip.

"You touch me again and the next thing I'll break will be your neck."

Dante could not help it. He inwardly smirked in unabashed smugness. A tad bit dramatic, yes, but all around perfect.

Just then, Den, Harrison and Cherit appeared from the front doors. Their eyes immediately zeroed in on the source of the ruckus and grimaced at the blatant mess of wood and scattered papers. A group of students pulled out their phones and began taking pictures. "Holy shit," gasped Den. "The desk!"

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Harrison. _"His arm!"_

Cherit peeked from the inside Den's backpack. His pointy ears shifted in the direction of hurried footsteps. A group of four security guards was quickly approaching, each one looking angrier than the next. Cherit rapidly hid inside the backpack again, his yellow eyes frantically searching for an exit.

"I think we best hurry, lads. We're about to have company…"

* * *

" _There was no world, no land, no god or heaven or earth outside of their two bodies naked and trembling in the act of love."  
_ ― Roman Payne

 **Higashi Nagasaki B (SHARE H., APT.) Ikebukuro Tokyo, Japan**

All he saw was the curve of her neck and the arch of her back.

His fingers curled roughly around her fragile wrists, one hand holding her hands above her head and the other sliding possessively over her thigh. His lips kissed down her neck then travelled down her collarbone, his teeth skimming on milky white skin with the promise of more at the tip of his sinful tongue.

The woman beneath him squirmed and whined as her legs parted further to accommodate Dante, the blush on her face blooming even in the darkness of the room. Her enchanting hair flowed around her head like a darkened halo, making her eyes shine like beacons in the bleakness of the night. Her satin, pink lips formed an _"oh"_ of satisfaction as Dante's large hands cupped her breast, each mound massaged in such a delectable way, making Zhalia moan in urgency. The callousness of his hands contrasted beautifully with the smoothness of her chest, her body lifting off the bed like a feline in heat.

The auburn hair seeker felt the hardness between his legs grow heavier as his hips aligned with that of Zhalia's, both grinding into one another seeking the delicious friction of untamed pleasure. Dante's skin burned with the need to have her, his harsh breathing mixing with Zhalia's whimpering and frantic movements. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as his member slid almost effortlessly into her moist cavern, his groans of passion muffled by the sheets beneath them both.

A second ( _Minute? Hour?_ ) passed to accommodate his length inside her, the stillness almost unbearable for Dante. But of course, he'd wait an eternity if it meant for Zhalia. Only Zhalia. _Always Zhalia._

Finally, _finally,_ Zhalia shifted under his firm body, a silent plea for him to give her what she so desperately needed but could never bring herself to admit. Slowly, Dante pulled out then slid in, his eyes piercing Zhalia's gaze, never wavering, always watching. Her pretty little nose scrunched up as he picked up speed, her eyes shut tight in anticipation as he rocked them back and forth, back and forth, _back and forth…_

" _Ah!"_ She moaned, her arms desperately looking for something to hold on to then silently falling when she felt nothing but air. "Dante… _please_ ," she wrapped her legs boldly around his waist as her nails dug sharply into his broad back. _"Dante… I… mm…"_

Dante felt all reason leave his head. All he knew began and ended with the gorgeous woman in his bed. Her intoxicating scent, her melodious voice, her slim body that danced with every twist of his fingers, every lick of his tongue, every bite and kiss branded onto her skin. This wasn't just admiration, this was madness.

And he loved it.

"Tell me what you want." Each word was pierced with a thrust of his hips, Zhalia's moans getting louder the more aggressive he became. Dante was losing control and fast. _"Tell me."_

She gave a soft whine in return as Dante lifted her leg and threw it over his shoulder, the new angle giving way to a deeper thrust. Zhalia was outright screaming at this point, but Dante couldn't care less. _Let the whole apartment know_ , he thought arrogantly. _Hell, let all damn Tokyo know. Zhalia is mine and no one else's._

"You," came the hoarse response. "You. I want you."

Dante could not restrain himself any more. He buried as far deep as he could inside his lover, groaning in pleasure as Zhalia's toes curled in wanton ecstasy. Her fingers pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, beckoning his body closer to hers. Her hands roamed across the strong muscles of his broad back, the solidness of his defined shoulders and the firm lines of his abdomen. Every inch of his body just as perfect as the man who embodied it.

Their mouths met in an all-engulfing kiss, their lips and tongues trying to say what words simply could not. The sweat of their bodies fell languidly, each thrust becoming more frantic as the night transgressed. And almost like a flash of lightning, Zhalia reached climax, her head thrown back in complete bliss. Her eyes widened as she gasped for air, the intensity of her orgasm momentarily leaving her numb.

Dante followed soon after, his body growing stiff as he spent inside her. He gave three more shallow thrusts before post-orgasmic haze took him and left his body weary. Slowly, his body sagged upon Zhalia's, his hand coming to rest on her cheek before turning her head towards him. He kissed her silently, more passionately and less urgent than before as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I love you."

Dante lifted his gaze and looked deep into her eyes, his heart beating rhythmically. A comforting warmth settled in the cave of his chest as a large grin spread across his face. Both hands cupped her face as their foreheads gingerly touched. "I love you, too," he whispered. His lips rested on her forehead. "More than you could ever know."

Outside, a police siren wailed.

The clock read 3:17 am.

* * *

" _Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own."  
― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land_

 **Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque Sarajevo,** **Bosnia and Herzegovina**

" _Boltflare!"_

A piercing streak of light, the sting of smoke in the air, and the deafening sound of incoming fights. Those were the only things registering in Dante's mind.

His fist collided with the already-bruised cheek of an insurgent as he jumped to the second floor of the southern building. Two more men ran toward him. He pulled the first one from a distance as his knee made contact with his groin then kicked the second one square in the chest, his body falling limply from the balcony onto a cart of discarded trash. To his left, Caliban cleared the pathway for Lok's Freelancer and Den's Vigilante, the sheer strength of all three impossible to stop.

" _Damn it!"_

Dante recognized that voice anywhere.

"Zhalia!" Dante approached carefully, crouching beside her as she clutched her side in obvious pain. She hissed as her hand gripped slightly below her hip, a marring burn mark traveling upwards. Dante knew better than to touch the wound, and after several fights, Zhalia was too weak to heal herself. He removed his famous coat then proceeded to wrap it around his precious cargo, lifting her up with ease and pulling her close to his chest in a protective embrace. "We need to get you out of here. _Now._ "

"Goddamnit," she groaned from the intensity, her small hand tugging at the lapels of his coat. "There's still two more titans inside. And the map—"

"Don't worry about that. Your wound is my priority right now." The tone of his words commanded authority; they left no room for argument. Zhalia had no choice but to drop her head in silent resignation.

" _Featherdrop!"_ He swiftly landed on the opposite side of the building, careful not to be seen by the rest of the rebels. Under him, Zhalia fell silent.

And it was then, running through the smoke and dodging enemy fire, that Dante truly felt it.

Fear.

Not for himself, no. But fear of losing the most important person in his life. The one thing he could never take back. Dante's grip on Zhalia grew stronger, his unwavering sense of protection engulfing her in a comforting sense of security.

He loved her, and this quite possibly scared him. But the thought of losing her terrified him even more.

Yet, in the midst of the chaos and magical turmoil, Dante looked down at Zhalia. Her face covered in dirt and grime from the sand and explosions, her hands scarred and red from the weapons held and spells casted. Fighting against the toughest odds. This was the Zhalia he knew. This was the Zhalia he loved.

He kissed her forehead once more before hugging her tight.

 _He wouldn't have it any other way._

* * *

A/N: Huntik is, without a doubt, one of those shows that holds a special place in my heart. No matter how much time passes, I will always harbor a soft spot for this amazing series and the untapped potential it still has. I'm glad to see other Huntik fans out there. Keep writing, guys! Let's help this fandom grow 😊


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